BEACH BOY - JAMBIANI
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I'm standing ankle-deep in what feels like a warm bath, trying to take in the sheer beauty of my surroundings. Nearby a young boy carefully adjusts the mast of his boat, checks the sail and launches the vessel on the waves. As she surges smoothly forward, a grin spreads across his face. His handcrafted boat may be no more than a broken flip-flop, a stick and a piece of plastic bag but it moves like a dream and he's thrilled to bits. When he glances up at me, I nod with encouragement and smile back. We exchange names. His is Ali. |
A little further out to sea the bleached mango wood of elegant ngalawa outriggers groans and creaks as they rock gently in the shallow, turquoise water. A dhow floats across the horizon like a mirage. Jambiani beach, on Zanzibar's southeast coast, has me under its spell.
I've already strolled through Ali's village and seen a dirt-poor community where people get by with the bare minimum. Homes are humble, clothes and toys handmade. I've seen Ali's school, with several hundred pupils but few facilities and a small clinic sponsored by a British NGO. Further down the dusty main street cows graze beside washing lines of multi-coloured kangas strung between impossibly tall palms.
The beach is a parallel world that changes its mood with the tide – shades of blue too numerous to count when the tide is in – and a treasure trove of sea shells and tiny sea creatures left behind in rock pools once the tide has slowly receded.
Next morning I'm up at sunrise and watch the beach gradually stir into life. Women and children appear, tripping lightly towards the horizon in single file, each carrying an empty sack. I wonder if Ali or his mother is among them. They work fast, often singing, and soon return, the sacks bulging with seaweed balanced skillfully on their heads. Their silhouettes reflect in the rippled sand, sparkling in the early morning light. Later I spot the seaweed, sometimes green, sometimes golden, spread on the ground to dry. I'm told it used to be the most precious of Jambiani's meagre resources but, since rising sea temperatures have started to kill much of the seaweed, it has been successfully replaced by sponge farming.
I've already strolled through Ali's village and seen a dirt-poor community where people get by with the bare minimum. Homes are humble, clothes and toys handmade. I've seen Ali's school, with several hundred pupils but few facilities and a small clinic sponsored by a British NGO. Further down the dusty main street cows graze beside washing lines of multi-coloured kangas strung between impossibly tall palms.
The beach is a parallel world that changes its mood with the tide – shades of blue too numerous to count when the tide is in – and a treasure trove of sea shells and tiny sea creatures left behind in rock pools once the tide has slowly receded.
Next morning I'm up at sunrise and watch the beach gradually stir into life. Women and children appear, tripping lightly towards the horizon in single file, each carrying an empty sack. I wonder if Ali or his mother is among them. They work fast, often singing, and soon return, the sacks bulging with seaweed balanced skillfully on their heads. Their silhouettes reflect in the rippled sand, sparkling in the early morning light. Later I spot the seaweed, sometimes green, sometimes golden, spread on the ground to dry. I'm told it used to be the most precious of Jambiani's meagre resources but, since rising sea temperatures have started to kill much of the seaweed, it has been successfully replaced by sponge farming.
That afternoon I'm drawn back to the beach again. As I stoop to pick up a shell, I'm surprised to hear someone call my name in this place where nobody knows me. I look up to see Ali waving frantically. He jumps up from his group of friends, busy practising cartwheels on the sand and runs to join me. Then he proudly puts his latest boat through its paces for me, pleased to have an admiring audience. His English is basic and my Swahili non-existent but we manage to chat … about school, his friends, his eight brothers and sisters.
Then he lifts his boat from the water and inspects it once again. I smile and when I start to leave, he says “ Bye. Tomorrow.” It seems I have a friend in Jambiani.
Then he lifts his boat from the water and inspects it once again. I smile and when I start to leave, he says “ Bye. Tomorrow.” It seems I have a friend in Jambiani.
